


canyon moon

by pentaghastly



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/F, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-TRoS, but harold, fellas....... is it gay to be in love with your best bro...., in space if you're gay no one can hear you uh not be gay, kale ron???? never heard of her, sorry idk where that tag was going, the rose/rey is background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: Tomorrow.Once something that felt so far out of reach. Once something abstract, something like a painting or a place or a person, always evading his grasp.Tomorrow feels like a promise.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Rose Tico
Comments: 13
Kudos: 253





	canyon moon

**Author's Note:**

> fellas is it gay to be finn and poe?
> 
> yea

So this...

This is how Finn dies.

It's fine. It's expected. It's something he's spent a lot of time thinking about, planning for, when the nights are long and he can't sleep (because really, who even sleeps anymore?). The promise of tomorrow is abstract; the only thing that exists anymore is the reality that tomorrow very likely won't come for any of them. For him especially. 

He’s ready to die.

He’s _ready_

Or – okay, he’s not. Obviously. But Finn has come to terms with it. It’s just one of those unfortunate, poetic things, the things that happen to people at the forefront of a revolution. They die. They fight, they shoot, they fly, they risk their lives for the greater good and do what needs to be done in order to ensure that the next generation never has to endure what they did. If he has to die for Rey to live, for Rose to live, for Poe, for everyone...

If he has to die, he can do it.

He _can_ , despite what the voice in the back of his head is yelling at him. It’s not his voice, oddly enough: it’s deep, soft, gruff, gentle, _pleading_ , desperate and angry. It's begging, which is interesting only because begging doesn't suit the voice in the slightest. Finn knows that he should be able to place it. It’s familiar, heart-achingly so, cutting through all the cacophony of gunshots and screams echoing all around him. It’s familiar, and it’s home.

If he has to die, he’ll die like this. He’ll die thinking about calloused hands gripping his own so tightly that they start to ache, a leather jacket that fits better than anything has ever fit him before, Rey’s chin tucked into his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek, BB-8 butting against his leg, Poe smiling at him – Poe nudging him with his elbow, Poe clinking their glasses together in celebration of a battle well-won, Poe rubbing circles on his back when he wakes up in the middle of the night panting and sweating and screaming. He’ll die with the memories of the things that matter. Standing on a sinking ship, saving all of the people that deserve to be saved. FN-2187 died the moment Poe gave him a name; it’s only fitting that Finn goes this way, thinking about all of the things that he's been lucky enough to love.

Poe.

Poe’s voice.

Poe’s ship, flying towards him.

.

(Maybe he can’t die.

Not quite yet.) 

.

Everything after…

It’s the _after_ that gets him.

Because really, what the fuck are the supposed to do? He’s a Stormtrooper that defected, Rey saved the galaxy, Leia is gone, he can feel the Force. Some members of the Empire remain, obviously, but they’re few and far between and honestly, Finn’s not really sure that he’s got energy left in him to hunt them down. It’s time for them to rest, they’ve _earned_ it, but, holy shit, he’s got no idea what that means anymore.

Everyone is drinking. Everyone is dancing, cheering, hugging, kissing. Rey and Rose are sitting off at a table nearby, heads close together, giggling and whispering, and – honestly, _yeah_ , that makes sense. The droids are all circling around Chewie, a symphony of beeping and buzzing that Finn can only assume means they’re happy. It’s a proper celebration, as it rightfully should be, and these are his people – the people that he was ready to die in order to save – but he doesn’t really know where he belongs among them.

Poe meets his gaze from across the room, from where he’s apparently still trying to charm Zorii out of her suit.

(It pisses him off.

He doesn’t know why.) 

Poe smiles, dark eyes reflecting in the light.

 _Okay_ , he thinks.

_Okay._

_This is home_.

.

He bumps into Zorii later, when he’s making his way through the crowd.

She claps her hand on his shoulder, too strong for her size, gripping a little too tight. 

“ _Ouch_ ,” he says.

“He loves you,” she tells him, and despite that ridiculous looking helmet – despite that, Finn’s pretty sure that she’s smiling. “He really fucking loves you.” 

“I mean, yeah.” Finn shrugs. He doesn’t need her to tell him that. “We’re family.” 

She shakes her head.

“He loves you,” she repeats. “Stop being so stupid about it.” 

Which, okay…

What is he supposed to do with that?

.

So he knows what he’s supposed to do. 

Obviously.

It’s just a lot easier said than done.

.

He and Poe find each other after the party, when they’re both walking back to their respective bunks, finally able to sleep without the burden of impending death looming over their shoulders.

He looks tired, Finn thinks. He looks so much older than he is, so much older than the first time they met all that time ago – but then, Finn’s sure that he does too. Like, for example, before this moment he always knew what to say to his best friend. He always had a joke on the tip of his tongue, something that’s part-charming, part-stupid. There’s always _something_ , but right now…

Right now, there’s just relief.

They hug. Not for the first time since the battle – they’d hugged then too, when they landed, but Rey had been in the middle and that had been all full of adrenaline. This is different; this is tired, soft, like two people falling into each other after a lifetime of being torn apart. Finn hadn’t known that a hug could feel like this. He hadn’t know that _this_ existed.

“I thought you were going to die, man.” Poe says.

Finn thinks, _I was ready._

He says, “Not yet. I couldn’t leave yet.”

He thinks, _I couldn’t leave_ you _yet_.

It’s not clear whose face turns first. It’s not clear who turns the hug to a scape of stubble against cheek, to a gasp as chapped lips meet, to the feeling that neither of them will remember how to breathe if they’re separated from one another. It’s not clear, but Finn doesn’t think that it matters.

It’s a kiss. It’s a kiss, or something like it. It’s desperate yet gentle, passionate yet quiet, a way of expressing fifteen different things at once. Finn thinks of the voice in his head – the one that sounded like home and the one that sounded like Poe, the one that told him that he had to stay, because there were things that they had to do and that they had to do them together. They hold each other closer and he thinks about the jacket that’s tucked under his pillow, the one that smells like spice and alcohol and warmth, the one that’s smelt like home from the moment that he put it over his shoulders.

“Tomorrow,” Poe says, laughing a bit desperately against Finn’s lips, “tomorrow, we’re done with saving the world. Never again.”

“Tomorrow,” Finn agrees.

 _Tomorrow_. 

Once something that felt so far out of reach. Once something abstract, something like a painting or a place or a person, always evading his grasp. Not anymore, though.

Tomorrow feels like a promise.

.

Finn was born to salt and smoke.

He was born to…he’s not sure, really. 

Blood. Anger. Fighting. 

They always told him he was too soft for it, the Order. They always told him that he was too gentle, too prone to kindness and pity and empathy. 

Finn was born to _yearning_. He was born to wanting things, things that Stormtroopers aren’t supposed to want. He wanted a home, he wanted people who loved him, he wanted a place to live and children who laughed and an ocean that he could run into, the smell of salt and sand instead of brimstone and burning. He wanted something more than the things that he got, things like blasters that he didn’t know how to shoot and bruises smattered across his cheeks whenever he did something wrong (which was often.)

He was born to live.

And now, for the first time, it feels like he finally has a chance.

.


End file.
